Dreams Are Sometimes Made Of Feathers
A black feather dances its way to wooden floors
I am buried in my sheets and unwilling to acknowledge you
Stubborn Daemon, you both bring and maculate dreams of her
Her face is lost somewhere between lucid and wake
What good are hollowed prophecies?
No sustenance, and nothing to gain
Only a frantic assurance that I one day will meet-
In passing, a glimpse will sop a tear
And I will hold her hand
A crowded street
The busiest marketplace
A solitary trail
Her, deserving of all my infinite kisses
I am aware of your labor and order
Know that I will...